LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

®]^Ii. - ®npi|rig?^t :f 0. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



A CAVERN FOR A 
HERMITAGE 



CLARENCE A. BUSKIRK 

OF PRINCETON, IND. 




NEW YORK ' 

JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 

1889 



CopjTight, 1889, 

BY 

CLARENCE A. BUSKIRK. 



0, for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade ! 

COWPER. 

Ah, what shall I he at fifty 
Should Nature keep me alive, 
If I find the world so bitter 
When I am but twenty five ? 

Tennyson. 



A CAVERN FOE A 
HERMITAGE. 



Argument. — One who has been driven into 
the edges of misanthropy, retires to a wilder- 
ness; where, from day to day, he puts his 
ruminations into verse. 

I. 

I SUFFER, heart and brain, 

In weariness and pain ; 

My soul fiiints, and I tire 

Of all the sordid strife. 

Day after day, in which I waste my life — 

Toilinji" for nothing- higher 

Than that vile gold, for want of wdiich the 

poor 
Must give to carking cares 
Youtli, manhood, and gray hairs, 
To scare the wolves of famine froui the 

door. 
5 



6 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

I've sought the sylvan solitudes, 

"Where, far apart from all the noise of men. 

Amid romantic woods 

Streams wander through soft sunlight and 

sweet gloom, 
Down the green hill and through the rocky- 
glen ; 
And where the fair flowers bloom, 
And happy birds sing to the capering 

leaves 
A song that never tires and never grieves. 
And there, (as in the days 
Of careless boyhood,) I will sit and gaze 
Around in idle freedom, with my head 
Against the trunk of some gnarled oak 

wide-spread ; 
And tliere I'll hear the birds exalt their 

mirth 
In music born alike of heaven and earth, 
While graceful shadows in their hammocks 

swing, 
Like gentle woodnymphs, where the wild 

flpw^ers spring : 
And there I'll watch the clouds 



A Cavern for a Hermitage, 7 

Drifting in stately crowds, 

Like stately ships with banners streaming 

high, 
Across the trackless ocean of the sky ; 
And blissful castles shall my fancies build 
In those blue fields by mortal plows un- 

tilled ; 
While on the wave-like music of the birds 
Shall drift my dreams too fair for mortal 

words : 
And thus shall I forget 
The present with its Gorgons of regret, 
Its Satyr-like ambitions and despairs, 
And all its Vulcan brood of limping cares I 



II. 



Dwellers beside the gutters never know 
How beautiful the world in which we 

dwell. 
The wondrous flowers that deck the grassy 

ground ; 
The happy streamlets murmuring to their 

banks ; 



8 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

The songs of birds like Ariels in disguise ; 
The blooming valleys and the stately hills ; 
The skies above us, with their azure space 
Cloud-winged by day and starry-eyed by 

night ; 
The dwellers by the gutters know not 

these 
As they are viewed in peaceful solitude. 
The Dollar's mighty disk hides sun and 

moon : 
The gem that glitters like a demon's eye, 
While penury pines unheeded close at 

hand, 
Feasts eyes that never heed a forest rose. 
The fierce excitements of the menial street, 
The vicious chatter of the gilded hall. 
The mean ambitions of the day and night, 
These dull the taste for field and wood 

and sky, 
Until the dwellers by the gutters sink 
In nobleness of motive and desire — 
Their lives a fretful fever and low farce. 

But dwarfed become the daily ills that vex, 
The insect cares that pester and perplex, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Seen under the perspective of the stars 
When Delphic night the infinite unbars. 



III. 

At last I've found a Hermitage, 
From all the hives of men apart, 
Deep in this trackless solitude. 
How oft a poor, down-trodden heart, 
Writhing and bleeding and despairing 
Beneath the cruel feet of fate, 
For some such refuge dreams and longs, 
Away from guile and greed and hate ! 

A man among his fellow-men 
Oft finds himself by wolves beset, 
Whose hungry eyes torment his soul, 
Whose teeth are with his life-blood wet : 
At last he wearies of the strife, 
And hates the vile, voracious herd ; 
He flees to Nature's outstretched arms, 
And hears her voice in brook and bird. 



10 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 

True, men are born with social needs, 
Gregarious both in blood and brain ; 
True, solitude with all its joy 
Brings likewise bitterness and pain ; 
Yet to adjust the jostled scales 
When rudely struck aside by wrong, 
Is oft beyond a generous soul, 
Such frauds and falsehoods round it throng. 

A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
From all the hives of men apart — 
What fitter place where peace may reign, 
And patience fortify the heart ? 
Ambition, Envy, Greed and Hate, 
They perish in the solitude ; 
Their roots that midst the gutters thrive. 
Can never there intrude. 

A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
From all the hives of men apart. 
There trees and birds calm counsels give. 
And grass and flowers pi-otcct the heart : 
There wolves may howl or bears may 
growl, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 1 1 

But men, at least, are far away ; 
There Peace, a miglity Inca, rules, 
And Spaniards hold no sway ! 

IV. 

One time, when traversing a solitude 

Of rugged mountains and primeval groves, 

I found this lonely Cavern. With awed 

torch 
I pierced the darkness of colossal halls 
Ribbed firm with granite, and adorned 

with gems 
Which shone with all their marvels as I 

passed. 
As 'twere some Genii's palace grand and 

vast. 
My feet had followed the romantic tune 
Of a blithe brooklet, half an afternoon, 
When underneath a hill its crystal wave 
Vanished, and showed the entrance to a 

cave ; 
Where, afterwards, I heard it pour along 
Througli mighty chambers witli its gentle 

sons. 



12 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Here shall my patient toil prepare a den 
Among the beasts, and far removed from 

men : 
And thus a refuge ' twill become for one 
Who seeks the babble of the world to 

shun, 
To hide in solitude the cruel smarts 
False foes and falser friends oft deal to 

faithful hearts. 



V. 



A NEAR my Cavern is a lovely lawn, 
An arrow's flight in breadth, whereon the 

trees 
Have never made intrusion. There I'll 

delve, 
Until the husbandry of patient days 
Evokes a smiling scene of fruits and 

flowers. 
Watching, from day to day and week to 

week, 
The miracles of vegetable growth, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage 1 3 

And the sweet things which Nature's 

magic brusli 
Paints on the emerald earth above all art, 
I'll feel, mayhap, the balmy hand of peace 
Once more caress my soul as in my youth. 
Tired and bruised souls, seeking the wilder- 
ness, 
(If moulded in a strong and generous 

shape,) 
From under the winking lashes of the stars, 
From brawling cataracts and singing birds, 
From timid ivy and majestic oak, 
From sailing cloud and sudden thunderbolt, 
From all the sights and sounds of night 

and day, 
Learn to adore the beauty of tlie earth. 
And all the radiant majesty of space ; 
Learn that we errant mortals tread a globe 
Worthy of adoration, and worthy, there- 
fore. 
To furnish all our lives with peace and 

joy; 

Learn to behold with patient charity 
The pitiful passions of our sprawling race, 



14 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 

Which else inflame our hatreds and 

despairs ; 
Learn to forget the swarms of insect cares 
And stinging hopes and teasing vanities, 
(Those parasites of spiritual disease,) 
Which in the fetid atmosphere of towns 
Once buzzed about me like winged masto- 
dons. 

Here may I stay the remnant of my life, 
Far from the world with all its noise and 

strife. 
Gayly to climb the mountain solitudes, 
To hunt the bounding deer through track- 
less woods, 
To angle in the joyous brooklets where 
They dash in waterfalls through valleys 

fair; 
Thus may I find the buoyancy of liealth 
Endowing me beyond all India's wealth — 
For men of healthful blood are happy 

men. 
While oft a palace is a sick man's wretched 
den. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 15 

The woful catalogue of maladies 

Which rack the frames of men, until dis- 
ease 

And life appear twin-born, are all un- 
known 

To the rude savage, while their crops are 
sown 

Like plague-seeds in the marts of luxury. 

The mental ailments, pale despondency, 

And madness, and the nameless imps that 
toll 

Their dismal peals across tlie hapless 
soul. 

All these belong not to the mountain-side 

Or the recesses of tlie forest wide. 

Better to suffer the sharp penalties 

Of nature's broken statutes, so to please 

The senses with fictitious happiness? 

Better to sin and suffer sin's distress ? 

Here, undisturbed by envy, pride, and 
hate, 

One's wants how simple and one's joys 
how great ! 



16 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Here, one may dwell as ignorant Adam 

dwelt 
In peaceful Eden. Here, when tempests 

pelt, 
I'll laugh at all the threats of wind and 

wave, 
Within the granite chambers of this Cave. 
Here, when the sky is calm and earth is 

glad. 
My steps may climb the hills in beauty 

clad. 
And find those buoyant joys of heart and 

brain 
That dwell upon the hills. And, not in 

vain, 
Through shadowy forests my adventurous 

feet 
Shall seek romantic valleys lone and 

sweet, 
Where hermit roses dwell, and mighty 

oaks 
Welcome to their deep arms the elfin 

folks, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 17 

And where from caves, in which may 

Titans dream. 
Glides with soft music oft a white-lipped 

stream. 
Here, far removed from all the strife of 

men, 
I'll dwell in happy freedom in this glen, 
Free from the sordid pride and greed and 

toil, 
Those vermin of the world which human 

bliss despoil. 

VI. 

I have become a student of the sky, 
Watching it through long liours of revery. 
Before the day has dawned 1 often climb 
An isolated peak that stands sublime 
Near to the Cave ; there pause, and view 

the mist 
Rise from the valleys, by the sunrise 

kissed ; 
Its broad and lake-like fields serenely 

spread 
In winding gulfs about the islanded 



18 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Summits of pine-clad hills of smaller 

height, 
And windless seas beneath the moon of 



night 



Lying less still and cold ; and watch the 

beams 
Flowing across the mist in silver streams 
Till the mist breaks in foam against the 

hills, 
And glides away, revealing silver rills 
And wakening woods and green and flow- 
ery vales, 
While gently rise the odorous morning 
gales. 

The clouds are wondrous things in all their 

ways — 
Whether like fleecy flocks they calmly 

graze 
Along the azure fields ; or proudly sail 
Like gallant ships before some upper gale ; 
Or stand like patriot mountain-chains of 

snow, 
With fathomless abysses cleft below ; 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 1 9 

Or pile in splendid domes and palaces, 
Flushed with celestial colors numberless ; 
Or rove as precious argosies of showers, 
Consigned to lovely ports of fruits and 

flowers ; 
Or battle high in heaven in awful wrath, 
While Cossack lightnings hover round 

their path ; 
Or graceful rainbows magically form, 
Smiling away the squadrons of the storm; 
Or stretch in wondrous wreaths and dia- 
dems, 
With stars at intervals like sparkling gems, 
Wind-woven into light and argent lace 
The maiden moon on summer night& to 
grace. 



A single sunset hath more loveliness 
Than all the boasted paintings kings pos- 
sess. 
Then Nature revels in most glorious mood, 
Revealing powers which shame our feeble 
brood. 



20 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Take the rare moment ere the large sun 

sinks 
Behind far hills and their mysterious 

brinks — 
The sky then opens like a radiant rose, 
Blooming beside a zenith where repose 
AVhite flakes and threads of vapor, and 

cloud -shapes 
Of wondrous grace, and airy gulfs and 

capes : 
Soon the whole sky becomes a molten sea 
Of climbing fire and color; shadowy 
Ravines receive the mantling streamS of 

gold; 
While marvelous scarlet hues, too mani- 
fold 
And beautiful for human words to tell 
Or thought to treasure, in bright billows 

swell 
Up to the very edges of the blue ; 
And every instant s[)lendors ever new 
With still unfolding charms enrapt the 

view. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 21 
VII. 

Youth quickly tires of calm retreats, 
And loves the tumult of the streets : 
A^j^e loves the noise of peaceful rills, 
But not the noise of babbling men ; 
Age loves the stretch of quiet hills, 
AVhile mortared bricks fatigue its ken. 

Youth fondly seeks the glittering strife 

And gay e ties of busy life : 

Age seeks the balm of solitude 

To heal the hurts the world bestows — 

The balm tliat's found in lonely wood. 

Or converse with a blushing rose. 

VIII. 

I FIND my instinct for companionship 
Oft leads me to converse with other minds 
Carefully chosen in my many books — 
Minds incandescent in their nobler moods. 
And happily shorn of all those paltry 
traits 



22 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Which, wlien our comnides are in flesh 

and blood, 
Are smoke to hide their brightness from 

our eyes. 
The wounded spirit shrinking from the 

world. 
Which still may find companionship in 

books, 
Meets there high sympathies which solace 

best 
A wounded spirit in a generous breast ; 
For books are friends — when they are 

worthy friends — 
AVhose comradeship a constant gladness 

lends. 
And there one meets from every land and 

age, 
Poet and wit, philosopher and sage. 
The mind that journeys into realms ideal, 
May oft forget the sorrows of the real ; 
The pen becomes the hand of Beatrice 
Guiding us on through realms of joy and 

peace. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 23 

Poesy, like a fair enchantress, waves 
Her waiul above the soul, and from its 

graves 
New forms of beauty into being start, 
AVith speech, before unheard, to move the 

heart — 
A serapli, uttering from a mortal's hood 
The soul-thoughts of the living and the 

dead, 
Like a shell that murmurs of the sirens' 

bed. 
Or the wierd sweet music in a haunted 

wood. 

Tlie Flowers of Thought with their divine 
perfume — 

How shall we know the gardens where 
they bloom ? 

Their lusty roots what rich soil nourishes. 

And feeds them with perennial loveliness ? 

What purer air and light their leaves dis- 
close. 

That they outvie the beauties of the rose ? 



24 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Not on tlie hillside where the golden grain 
Coquets till comes the scythe by which 'tis 

slain ; 
Not where Anacreon-hearted bobolinks 
Loiter in meadows till the warm sun sinks ; 
Not in romantic woods where Diyads 

dream ; 
Not fed by kisses of Arcadian stream ; — 
Where nurtured, then, those fair, immortal 

flowers, 
Strewing life's pathway like Idalian 

bowers ? 
We find them in the strangest of all 

nooks — 
Hidden within the pages of our books ! 
Mayhap, these Flowers of Thought which 

for us bloom. 
Reach their deep roots to some forgotten 

tomb — 
Where rolls the Nile, or Tiber's turgid 

tide, 
Or Grecian skies o'er fairest lands preside, 
Or stares the Sphinx in awful mystery, 
Or drift the sacred waves of Galilee. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 25 

Mayliap, tlicy lie unknown for centuries 
Before discovered to far-sailing eyes, 
Yet henceforth to our galleons evermore 
Tiu^y send rare perfumes fiom their Sabian 

shore. 
Where'er they grow, in all our hearts they 

own 
A Memnon's statue, giving forth its tone 
Of marvelous music under the dawn's 

kiss ; 
And on the cloud-curtain hiding the abyss 
Of matters infinite are seen their dyes. 
Shining like starbeams from unfathomed 

skies. 

IX. 

In youth I trained my errant thoughts to 

climb 
In springtime growth the trellises of 

rhyme ; 
And often now, by venting it in verse, 
I save my soul the lava of a curse. 



26 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

The world gives scant rewards to Poesy. 
From sounding brass it turns its sordid 

face 
Impatiently to hear a minstrel's voice — 
Albeit a happy thought whose music beats 
Against the lattice of a pent-up soul, 
Shall live as long as hearts feel grief or 

joy. 

But the true minstrel sings not for re- 
wards — 
He sings because the song is in his soul. 
Poesy blooms as a spontaneous flower, 
"Whene'er it blooms at all, and fame or 

wealth 
Add but false petals to its lovely growth ; 
Though they may give to cunning handi- 
work 
Skilled counterfeits to cheat a careless 

world. 
Poets are few, yet all at times are poets. 
The heart that never felt poetic heat. 
In some volcanic epoch or sweet spring. 
Is a poor barren clod of earth indeed. 
Where heavenly flowers ne'er climb 
through brier and weed. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 27 

Let sordid souls the Winged Horse 

despise 
And count him of no value ! Let dull 

eyes 
Regard his wings with scorn, because their 

flight 
Avoids the marts where Gold obscures the 

sight ! 
Those who have felt the rapture of his 

speed, 
Grasping the mane of the Olyminan steed. 
Know that his glorious gallops have a 

worth 
Beyond the gilded baubles of all earth ! 
What empery to ride the Winged Horse — 
To leave all cares and sorrows and 

remorse 
Of this dull earth beneath, and gayly 

skim 
Along the heavens to their hill-girt rim; 
And oft on chosen mountain-tops to rest, 
Forgetful of mankind, and Nature's 

guest ; 



28 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

To swim on summer clays above the 

heat ; 
To pierce the fleecy cloud-waves as they 

fleet 
And find blue oceans on their farther 

side; 
To distance the swift eagles in their 

pride, 
And listen to the birds intone their 

notes 
In blue abysses where no discord floats ! 
His feet may wander througli a wilder- 
ness, 
And lo, it shines with beauteous palaces ; 
May traverse desert sands or arctic 

snows. 
And every hoof-print blossoms with a 

rose. 



Solitude is a pent-browed oracle, 
And the sole nurse of deep and patient 
thought : 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 29 

Her messages of truth are poorly heard 
Where greed and folly spin their noisy 

tops. 
The kindliest of the gifts of Solitude 
Is the perfect key wherewithal Memory 
To foot-sore souls unlocks her magic halls, 
Wherein are hung the pictures of the 

Past. 
Fairest among the pictures that are hung 
Along the silent galleries of my soul, 
This is the one, and most distinctly 

seen : — 

Two sentinel oaks of reverend age, (whose 

green 
And mighty tops stand close beside a lake 
Where silver waves on banks of verdure 

break,) 
Half hide from view the antiquated Cot 
That lends an idyl to the lonely spot. 
The windows are thrown open to the 

breeze 
That loves the green abysses of the 

trees , 



30 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Its walls are fondled by romantic vines 
Where many a flower its blushing cheek 

reclines ; 
And from the string-latched door a path 

descends 
To where the lake its crystal circle 

bends. 
Across the lakelet twice an arrow's flight 
A rocky hill abruptly meets the sight, 
And stretches upward into quiet woods, 
Cleft with deep dells and lovely solitudes. 

There the keen blood of boyhood swiftly 

sped 
Through joyous veins ; there with electric 

tread 
The lithe form bounded, nimble as the fawn 
That came to drink beside the lake at 

dawn ; 
There the round, silver voice rang sweetly 

out 
In laughter and loud song and blithesome 

shout, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage, 31 

While health and vigor lent their ecstacies, 
Flushed the brown cheeks and sparkled in 

the eyes. 
Alas ! we mortals were not born for ease, 
To pass our lives in golden joys like 

these ! 
Alas ! our fate ordains we toilers must 
Confront life's pathway through a soiling 

dust — 
To sweat, to toil, to tire, to sin, to sob, 
As helpless items of a drifting mob ! 
Tell us, O Seers whose rhythmic voices 

bring 
From life's hard rock full many a fabled 

spring. 
Why all these passions, agonies and toils. 
To win a victory that death despoils ? 
The answer cometh back, (like the sad 

tone 
Of some old harp which perished hands 

have known,) 
And murmurs that the gem of happiness 
Sparkles not on the forehead of success, 



32 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

But rather brightens with its mystic fires 
The darkness where man labors and 
aspires. 



XI. 



Once I was young but now am old — 
Ah! those brief words sound meaning- 
less 
To hearts not yet divorced by the stern 

code of fate 
From youth and happiness ! 
But unto lives grown dark and cold, 
(Like wintry fields barren and desolate, 
Where once the grass was green and birds 

might mate,) 
Ah ! unto lives thus dark and cold, 
What realms of sunless gloom those eight 
short words unfold ! 

Could all the priceless gems that shine 

On princely brows be mine. 

How quickly in a single di'aught of wine 



A Cavern for a Hermitage, 33 

Would I dissolve them all, if thus its 

flood 
Might pour anew the buoyant blood 
Of boyhood into veins grown stagnant 

with life's mud ! 

And yet, the draught could bring a bitter 
curse 

Unless the graves might open, and their 
dead 

Walk forth into the sunshine, and 
rehearse 

The scenes that, like lost music, have for- 
ever fled ! 

A goddess that to youth is well-nigh 

dumb. 
Memory, to age doth ever come 
With lips benignly garrulous. 
Her words invoke the spirits of the past. 
And they with pleasing voices throng to 

us, 
And sing of golden days that could not 

last. 



34 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Of loved and loving faces fled from earth, 
Of scenes of happy mirth, 
Of treasured kisses, words and smiles, 
All blooming as perennial flowers in mem- 
ory's halcyon isles. 

Often my weary eyes, when lone I sit 

Before my evening fire, see in it 

The old log school-house underneath tiie 

hill. 
Close to the withered hemlock from whose 

root 
Gushed forth the crystal rill ; 
School comrades merry-faced and swift of 

foot ; 
The rooms in which I slept and ate and 

played, 
And where my father knelt when mother 

prayed ; 
The droll-faced dolls in wondrous gar- 
ments clad, 
My sisters kissed when good and whipped 

when bad ; 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 35 

The pockets crammed with apples, pencils, 

strings, 
Knife-handles, horse-shoe nails, and end- 
less things ; 
The dog that barked, the cat that purred ; 
The latticed bird-cage, and its little bird 
That always ate or sang whene'er it 

stirred ; 
The cock that crowed too early every 

morn ; 
The barn, the orchard, the tin dinner- 
horn ; 
The old red saw-mill, and the valley brook 
Whose fishes were so shy of snare and 

hook ; 
The broad old elm tliat stood before 
The gate, and often on wild winter nights 
With shaking limbs would tap upon the 

door. 
As through the window shone our fire- 
side's warm delights. 
And then the panorama moves along, 
And leaves the realms of youthful laugh 
and song, 



36 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

And si lows the road where care and grief 

and sin 
To hirk like thieves and snarl like wolves 

begin. 
Swift and more swift the pictures move, 
Save when the tearful eyes take notice of 
Grass-covered graves, tresses of golden 

hair, 
And things that seem to speak like spirits 

from the air. 

Alas ! for him who leans upon his staff, 
Tlic ghosts of long-dead years in his weak 
moan and laugh ! 

XII. 

Within my humble hall there hangs 
against the wall 
A fairer flower than summer garlands 
know — 
A beautiful old face, whose gentleness and 
grace 
Beam forth like winter flowers beside 
the snow. 



A Cai'ern for a Hermitage. 37 

How calm the light which lies within 
those dear old eyes ! 
How noble the sad patience of that 
brow ! 
Those furrows which the years wore deep 
with many tears — 
Ah! how serene beneath life's sunset 
now! 

As on that face I gaze my fancy seeks the 
days, 
Long vanished, which her laughing girl- 
hood knew ; 
I see the well-sweep move she oft has told 
me of, 
And forest paths her bare feet rambled 
through. 

And then my fancy strays to those roman- 
tic days 
When maidenhood built castles in the 
the air, 

And saw in bright day-dreams Idyllic 
vales and streams 



38 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 

Where dwelt no sordid souls and all was 
fair. 

Ah, beautiful old face, that brow was once 
the place 
Where Cupid, the Olympian, had his 
reign ; 
Those furrowed cheeks have known swift 
bridal blushes blown, 
Like fragrant flames, across their fair 
domain ! 

41as ! all now remains of years of joys and 
pains 
Seems pictured in that face upon tlic 
wall! 
Alas ! that life should bloom so nigh the 
fatal tomb 
Wliich in its voiceless darkness buries 
all! 

Constant and faithful friend, within these 
lines \ sen4 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 39 

My greetings to thee whereso'er thou 
art ; 
For like a thornless rose thy lovely mem- 
ory grows 

And blossoms at the gateway to my 
heart ! 

XIII. 

I may no, worthy picture draw of her, 
For want of worthy words. When art- 
ists stir 
Their paints to mimic the transcendent 

dyes 
A gorgeous sunset pours across the skies, 
I think their souls must faint and timid 

grow. 
I have no words her loveliness to show, 
As on the canvas of my soul I see 
Her maiden charms in their sweet empery 
Of heavenly eyes, fair forehead, rosebud 

mouth, 
Cheeks delicate yet blooming like the 
south, 



40 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Brown hair all flecked with light — such 

as the sun 
Once in his loom for fair sea-maidens 

spun, 
And form as graceful as a dream in stone 
Chiseled when goddesses on eajdi w-^re 

known. 



XIV. 

Brown eyes and brown hair, 
White pearls in rose lips, 

Neck graceful and fair 

As the sailing in air 
Of summer cloud ships. 



Thoughts sweet as the rose 
The sunrise hath kissed, 
Speech sweet to its close, 
And sweet laughter that flows 
Like morn through tlie mist, 



A Cavern for a Hennliaye. 41 

XV. 

More sweet than the mountain's echo 
Of horns on the neighboring hike, 
Was the love in my darling's voice 
As it answered back my own ; 
More soft than summer stars 
On sleeping waters sown, 
Was the love in my darling's eyes 
AVhich answ^ered the love I spake. 

Like a timorous bird her hand 
Was nestled in my embrace, 
(How soft and warm it was !) 
And the darkness of her liair, 
(Where a wild-rose sweetly bloomed,) 
Was lit by moonbeams fair ; 
And the balmy night-wind loitei-ed 
About our trysting-place. 

We had w^andered up a valley, 
Beside a truant stream. 
While a summer afternoon 
Pistilled its golden hours : 



42 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Our hearts with love were freighted, 
Like our hands with blushing flowers 
And life to us seemed an Eden 
Worthy a poet's dream. 



The sun had lowered his bucket 

Of liquid light in the west, 

And the moon in the east was lifting 

Her bucket of flowing gold, 

And the oak above us rustled 

Its leafage overbold, 

As on her beauteous lips 

Love's virgin kiss I pressed. 



Love is a flame that burns 
Like a star's sky-cradled fire ; 
And shines with its fairest lustre 
When earth, like a timid nun, 
In darkness veils herself 
From the glances of the sun ; 
And eaoh pillar of cloud becomes 
A pillar of bright desire ; 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 43 

Then, under Love's charming magic, 
All the nobler legends writ 
Deepest upon the heart, 
(Tliose legends for which our lips 
Never learn but a broken language,) 
Come forth from their eclipse, 
With all their stellar meanings 
Like phosphorous darkness-lit. 



x\a. 

Our living wishes are unquiet waves 

That, driven by winds and tides, forever 
flee 

And find no place of rest beneath the 
skies , 

Our buried wishes oft have shallow 
graves. 

And upward from their darkness mock- 
ingly 

Thrust fleshless hands to flout our startled 
eyes. 



44 A Carer?) for a Hermitage. 

XVII. 

Lithe as a leopard in his limbs and walk ; 
Tall and broad-shouldered like an ideal 

prince ; 
His curling locks auburn and plentiful ; 
His large eyes dark and smiling; his frank 

face 
Noble and care-free ; in the bloom of 

youth ; 
Such is the vision that besets my brain 
This afternoon. 

Hastily up a street 
That merges in a dusty country-road 
He strides — the healthful air painting his 

cheeks 
And warming his young blood like balmy 

wine. 
True, his rough garments are threadbare 

with age ; 
True, in his coat collapses a lank purse 
Which careless wants have sucked lik^ 

leeches at ; 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 45 

True, only homely toils employ his arm, 
To guide the plow, or reap the ripened 

grain ; 
True, humble joys and simple aspirations 
Content the healthful hunger of his soul : 
But what all these save trifles, when his 

heart 
Is pure, honest and robust, and sweet 

health — 
Tlie goddess most divine that smiles on 

youth — 
Affords him transports which no gold can 

buy ? 
True, he is yet obscure, with life's strange 

battle 
Unfought before him, wherein he may fall, 
Or slowly sicken from defeated hopes ; 
Yet who would not prefer youtli with its 

strength. 
Its banquets of delight still to be tasted, 
To all the music that the trump of fame 
Can blatter forth to mock her favorites ? 
Alas ! how soon the dew deserts the 

flower t 



46 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
XVIII. 

The Minstrel of Meudon stood where the 

tide 
Of a city poured most strong and wide, 
(A tide that surges beneath the sway 
Of its yellow planet both night and day.) 
Across his face the wounds of thought 
Their scars and furrows had sternly 

wrought, 
And Titan-like in his cavernous eyes 
Were symbols, dreams and prophecies. 

The busy and gay swept past the spot 
Where he stood — and heeded the Minstrel 

not, 
For his cloak was poor and his frame was 

bent 
With age and sorrows. His life he had 

lent 
To the search of nobler things than are 

sold 
In the sordid marts of power and gold : 
So the vulgar scorn of the rich and great 
From him provoked but a smile sedate. 



A Cat em for a Hermitage. 47 

What cared he for their pomp and power, 
Tliose empty bubbles that burst in an 
hour? 



As he stood and watched the human tide 
"With its dregs of squalor and froth of 

pride, 
A funeral train swept slowly by, 
Foolish with sable pageantry. 
As the minstrel looked, a wayward thought 
To his face a shadowy briglitness brought ; 
And he seized his harp, with a curious 

scorn, 
And its music rose like the blast of a 

horn. 
Swift faces of wrath were turned to him. 
As if to rend him limb from limb ; 
But his fingers struck the strings ai>ace. 
And the scornful smile still kept his face. 
Then soon the minstrel's mighty art 
Revealed its empire over the heart; 
For the lowering faces softened down. 
And the smile and the tear followed the 

frown. 



48 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

While the pull-bearers paused, forgetting 

to pass, 
And the monks neglected to mumble their 



But now what strange caprice is this, 
Or doth the minstrel play amiss? 
A merry tune to which might dance 
Fays and elfins where moonbeams glance, 
Floats from his harp on the wondering 

air 
So sweet as to banish all grief and care ; 
And the bald-pated monks keep time, toe 

and heel. 
And the pall-bearers join in a rollicking 

reel. 
But while the Minstrel of Meudon hath 

shown 
To the gaping crowd his sceptre and 

throne, 
The smile hath slowly left his face 
And a weary frown usurped its place ; 
For all this time his mighty art 
Hath not been used for so idle a part 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 49 

As to study what already he knew — 
What follies monks and mourners can do : 
The sad-eyed minstrel hath only played 
For that breathless dust in the coffin laid ; 
And he saddens to know that while his 

strings 
Yield him an empire o'er living things, 
All his skill is but baffled and impotent 

breath 
When it crosses the Sphinx-like presence 

of Death 1 



XIX. 

It was morn ; and through the bars of my 
window came a bird, 

Singing a song so sweet that a golden sun- 
beam heard 

And followed into the gloom to listen, 
rapture -still 

Save when the beech outside trembled to 
some soft trill. 
4 



50 A Cavern for a Hennitaye. 

Before the singing had ceased, beneath 

some spell most strange 
Into a happy bird my dream had made me 

change ; 
And out of the window we passed, the bird 

that had sung and I, 
And flew to a snow-white cloud that was 

drifting through the sky. 

Through a portal in the cloud my guide 

and I then passed 
Into a realm so dark that sleep soon held 

me fast ; 
And I cannot tell how far the cloud had 

made its fliglit 
Ere I wakened from the sleep whose bonds 

had held me tight. 

Then, lo! I wore no longer the tiny 
bird's disguise. 

But stood in my own stature with wonder- 
widened eyes; 

And heard such wondrous sounds and saw 
such wondrous sights, 

That their recollections serve me a ban- 
quet of delights. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 51 

I stood within a valley in some delicious 

land, 
Where like wine to cheer the blood were 

the breezes blowing bland ; 
Where a soft, romantic light on the flowers 

and verdure fell 
Like the glances of a virgin when they 

hold us in their spell ; 

Where, at intervals, soft sounds across the 
silence drifted 

With surprises that were sweet as rosy 
lips uplifted; 

Where everything about me was so beau- 
tiful and rare, 

I fancied some Aladdin's lamp liad wrought 
the wonders there. 

I sang like a village boy when through the 

woods he rides. 
As I wandered tli rough the valleys and 

up the green hillsides ; 
Yet I marvelled that no beings like mortal 

men seemed tliere. 
Though I lieard sweet peals of laughter 

and soft voices everywhere. 



52 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

All suddenly I saw my Darling's form and 

lace 
Before me, like an angel of loveliness and 

grace : 
I ran with outstretched arms to clasp her 

then and there, 
But she faded while I followed in rapture 

and despair. 

Yet she gave a kiss of love, wafted from 

her finger-tips, 
More precious than the kisses bestowed 

by mortal lips ; 
And she sang a low farewell as from my 

longing siglit 
She faded, as a ship fades from the shore 

at night. 

XX. 

Sometimes I conjecture our souls are 

darkened by the wings 
Of events whose swift approach we thus 

are taught to know. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 53 

Our prescience may be sure, thougli based 
on mystic things 

Governed by mystic laws. Many shad- 
ows above us go. 

Have I heard the mystic sound of the 

dreaded Stygian stream? 
If so, I soon shall have solved, or cease 

the weary strife 
Of seeking to solve, the problem o'er 

which Death sneers at Life. 
Lives my Darling beyond the grave? or 

did I dream but a Dream ? 

XXL 

In vain, in vain, in vain ! Wliy strive 

aside to tear 
The dark and mighty veil that drapes the 

realms of air ? 
*T would seem all codes of faith — let them 

be true or false — 
Belong to a realm where Reason puts off 

his crown and halts. 



54 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Why not quaff in verdant valleys what 

pleasant streams may flow? 
Why seek their mountain sources through 

solitudes of snow ? 
Why not bask like butterflies among the 

random flowers? 
Why vex our little wings in search of 

fancied bowers? 

XXII. 

That unknown thing within us we try to 
call a soul, 

And famish on the threshold of such a 
barren word — 

By what mysterious powers are its sea- 
like billows stirred, 

What tidal influences its restless waves 
control ? 

We see the lights and shadows across its 

surface blown, 
And behold it as a mirror where images 

are thrown ; 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. />5 

But hid are its coral walls and adamantine 

towers, 
Where monsters are at home and sirens 

make their bowers. 



Tliough our thoughts leave earth beneath, 
like the carols of a hirk, 

Is there ever when *' heaven peeps through 
the blanket of the dark " 

To spy our mortal ways ? or, are we like 
bubbles which rise 

From seas that witlessly mirror the mean- 
ingless void of the skies? 



Are we made like the crawling worms and 
only a finer clay ? 

Is night the infinite womb, and her finite 
child, the day? 

Or, are truths which shine with the bright- 
ness of suns that never set, 

And hid because of the mists our darkful 
hearts beget ? 



oG A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

All about us are riddles, unsolved because 
they cannot be solved. 

Our senses are doors to darkness where 
man in his stupor winks. 

The Past is a burial desert where scowls 
an inscrutable Sphinx, 

And the future an ideal cloud-land in law- 
less mists involved. 

We teem with a thousand marvels, and so 

does the grass at our feet. 
We gaze at tlie stars, and we feel we are 

ants pushing globes of clay. 
The portals before us open along our 

groping way, 
But the portals keep closing behind us. 

And human life is fleet. 

Let man look into his soul and he finds a 
looking-glass. 

Curiously twisted and warped in number- 
less crooked ways ; 

Its surfaces constantly changing beneath 
his hectored gaze, 

And from heaven and hell alike the images 
which pass. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 57 

In those convex and concave mirrors, 
(where falsehood dwells alone, 

And peril in too much gazing— for mad- 
ness may come of it,) 

In garments of motely hues demons and 
angels flit 

Distorted, dilated, or dwarfed, and never 
truly shown. 

Drifting, drifting, drifting, my mind is a 

rudderless ship 
Tossed on a shoreless sea. Can anyone 

tell the trip 
On which he was launched at his birth ? 

For such fogs what compass avails? 
Why not go where the sirens are singing 

and struggle no more with the gales ? 
Better a crown of straws and a silly scep- 
tre of lath. 
If so the monarch be happy within his 

haughty cell, 
Than a digger of thoughts whose roots 

reach down into torture and wrath — 
Than to strive with unsatisfied thirsts like 

Tantalus in Hell ! 



58 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Mad? Let the wiseacres find a single 
soul that is sane ! 

The spiders of madness weave their cob- 
webs in every brain ? 

A crazy and credulous crew, whose com- 
pass to ruin dips, 

We sail on yawning seas, with foolish joy 
on our lips, 

And always magnet-mountains arise to 
wreck our ships. 

XXIII. 

Hast thou seen those pictures of Centaurs? 

Why, thou art a Centaur thyself; 
And the beast is thy greater part, and thy 

swifter part as well ! 
Dost thou claim to guide the beast ? Then 

somewhat reflect, and tell 
If the beast be not thy master and thou 

but an impotent elf? 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 59 
XXIV. 

I sneer at my own baseness ! O, I scorn 
The universal baseness of mankind ! 
I loathe my very self that I was born 
Of such a race of dogs and wolves in mind ! 
Thou Desert, welcome with thy scenes 

forlorn ! 
The soul is not all wretched when resigned ! 
Henceforth, the pains which rack me shall 

be borne 
In all the exhaustless strength of silent 

scorn : 

Let the storms beat of Fate and Circum- 
stance — 
Her fiercest shafts let hostile Fortune fling — 
I rise above them all. In sufferance 
Patient and strong, I trample like a king 
Under my heel all the vile things of chance. 
The soul is its own master, and to bring 
The soul to its own mastery is to gain 
The sceptre of the world and break its 
chain. 



GO A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

In vain ! in vain ! My heart is wrapt in 

gloom, 
Whose murky horrors a dread chaos seem 
Of hopeless blight and ruin. From the 

tomb 
Of years whose memory is a mocking 

dream, 
I hear an awful oracle of doom. 
Horrors and horrors throng, and darkly 

stream 
Like hungry harpies o'er me. Rend and 

tear — 
Endurance is the offspring of despair! 



Existence, at the best, is but a curse ; 
Pleasure a sleeping adder ; happiness 
A gaudy plume that waves above a 

hearse. 
Vanity, vanity, woe and bitterness 
Compose the draught we drink. The 

things we nurse 
Drive thorns into our hearts with eac^' 

caress, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 61 

And sicken with their perfumes. Vain, 

vain, vain ! 
The slaves of fate we drag a poisoned 

chain ! 

XXV. 

Who knows but these hanging-gardens 

which are the land of our dreams. 
Will become the home where our spirits 

will bask by the flower-banked 

streams ? 
Who knows but the passing waters of 

earthly cares and pains, 
(Which are flowing forever by but never 

empty their beds,) 
There will form peaceful lakes encircled 

by emerald plains ? 
And these hardest of couches turn softest 

— the hands that hold our heads ? 

XXVI. 

Behold the blazing log of sturdy oak, 
How soon 'twill vanish in its shroud of 
smoke — 



62 A Cavern for a Hermitafje. 

But, therefore, doth the acorn sprout in 

vain, 
Warmed by the sun and nourished by the 

rain ? 
Cans't tell us what ils destiny may be ? 
To buffet the wild billows of the sea ? 
To shine in motley paints in purse-proud 

halls? 
To fall to earth and perish where it falls ? 
Moulded from dust which soon is dust 

again, 
Thus vain and transient seem the lives of 

men — 
The longest life, upon lime's shoreless sea 
But a poor bubble of fri\olity — 
Ilnmnnity an all-devouring dyke, 
Through Avhich the generations ooze alike. 
Alike for all the darkness unexplored 
Before and after Avhere the stream is 

poured. 

Lives man no more ? Ends all within the 

grave ? 
Is there no Heaven to seek, no Christ to 

save? 



A Cavern for a Hermitags. ^o 

Is life a curse, the gift of cruelty ? 
Man but a storm-tossed ship upon a sea 
AVithout a port tliat's worth the toil to 

gain, 
Worthless his struggles, all his wisdom 

vain ? 
Are good and evil only empty cheats ; 
Our noblest victories our woi'st defeats ? 
Is human progress but a gilded curse, 
Guiding our hapless race from bad to 

worse ? 
Religion to the rescue ! Not fierce creeds, 
Beneath whose sway the martyr burns 

and bleeds ; 
Not some illogical and monstrous dream, 
To make the infidel triumphant seem ; 
But rational and universal Love, 
Worthy of man below and God above ! 
Polluted and despoiled by priestly rule, 
Trampled beneath the lioofs of ridicule- 
Still it lives on in its perennial bloom. 
To justify the cradle and the tomb ! 



64 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
XXVII. 

A desolate island in a desolate sea — 
A desolate island with no greenery 
Of grass or flowers or trees to make it fair, 
Nothing save drifted sands and rocks pili^d 

bare. 
It seemed a shoreless sea, whose billows 

rolled 
Sullen and listless, like a bosom old 
In anguish, when it slowly heaves and sinks 
In some new woe from which in vain it 

shrinks. 
An awful storm arose ; the sea and sky 
Were mingled in deep darkness; loud on 

high 
The thunders shook heaven's arches ; 

through the gloom 
Demoniac lightnings shot their bolts of 

doom. 
At last the chaos ceased. Serene and 

bright 
Shone forth the sun, and radiant flowers 

of light 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 65 

Adorned a rainbow's graceful arcli fliat 

hung 
Across tlie sky, the scattered clouds 

among. 
Beneath the arch I saw a mystic face, 
Fair beyond w^ords ; and, in a little space, 
I heard a voice speak soft as dream-words 

flow — 
"Hope waits on high for him who waits 

below." 



XXVIII. 

Foretold by prophet, priest and bard, 
By sign and portent heralded. 
The true Messiaii came und bled, 
And yet mankind knew not the Lord. 
The true Messiah came to earth — 
Not as a kingly conqueror comes. 
In jewelled pomp and noise of drums, 
But a lone manger gave him birth. 
Poor fishermen composed the band 
With whom he moved in humblest guise; 
Nor wealth nor greatness reached his eyes, 
5 



66 A Cavern for a ttermitage. 

Nor sword nor sceptre stnined his hand. 

He saw the strutting Ciesars pass, 

He saw the parasites of power, 

All as the insects of an hour, 

Or Hitting shadows on the grass. 

Unlike all other princes born, 

He valued not what men most prized ; 

So Gentiles doubted and despised, 

And Jews and Romans laughed in scorn. 

Not less the radiance of the flame 

Because too pure for mortal eyes ; 

Not less a radiance from the skies 

Because men looked through mists and 

shame ! 
Whatever comes to men or man 
Of blessings that beget no curse, 
Making all better, nothing worse. 
From inmost unto utmost span. 
Must come as comes the modest shower 
The gentle breeze, the nightly dew, 
As comes the morning from the blue, 
As comes the crimson to the flower. 
The light of the Messiah's birth, 
A quiet daybreak in the sky, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage, 67 

Still as the centuries go by 

Broadens its radiance round tlie earth. 

No threatening swords of Moslem hosts, 

No frightful gifts on Pagan shrines, 

No awful menaces and signs, 

The true Messiah's kingdom boasts. 

Its laws, pacific and benign. 

Are warm with sunlight from above ; 

Its messages are words of love 

And gifts of peace and joys divine. 

XXIX. 

"Existence, at the best, is but a curse," 
Those words I wrote of late, are they all 

truth. 
Or, only one half truth and one half worse ? 
As falsehood's rabid froth, I had in youtii 
Denounced them, each and all, those 

words I wrote. 
But I have deeply sinned, and sin hath left 
Its curse upon my soul ; and hate hath 

smote 
Mine idols into dust. A frightful theft 



68 A Cavern Jar a Hermitage, 

Against one's life, with hand upon one's 

throjit, 
Sin must commit, before one stands bereft 
Like that of trust in God and in one's 

kind, 
A Sampson in life's temple, shorn and 

blind ! 

XXX. 

Only in dreams our Castles of the Air 
Are built above the heavy fogs of care ; 
Only in dreams De Leon's fountain flows, 
Where pain and age can wash away their 
woes. 

The flower of hai)pincss can only bloom 
Where virtue tills the soil and love abides; 
It may be in the bright and festive room, 
Or in the hut where [)Overty resides. 
Its beauteous petals open and perfume 
No spot because wealth pours her golden 

tides, 
Or fame or fashion wield their gilded rods, 
Or power forgets the vengeance of the gods. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage, 69 
XXXI. 

I SPECULATE if part of my fierce gloom 
Might still be swept aside with laughter's 

broom ? 
For laughter is a broom to sweep the 

brain 
Of many of its webs of care and pain : 
And men should not disdain to look well 

after, 
What the Olympians loved, blood-rousing 

laughter. 

Grief is a bat that loves the darkness best, 

And far from noise and sunshine buiUls 
its nest : 

Get tlie lieart stirring once with nimble 
blood, 

And Grief soon elsewhere rears its dusky 
brood. 

Go out and breathe the sparkling atmos- 
phere — 

The gods' champagne that gives celestial 
cheer ; 



70 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Shake crfF the stupor of thy spirit's pain, 
As the lion shakes the dewdrops from his 

mane ; 
Be not like barnacles upon a log 
Drifting at lazy random through a fog ; 
Nor absent-minded like an amorous spark 
When winking at his sweetheart in the 

dark : 
A giant when he first emits his moan 
Is smaller and weaker than a dwarf when 

grow^n ; 
So griefs which might be strangled at the 

first, 
Are into grisly monsters quickly nursed ! 

However deep the ills of life may prick 
Our feet like cruel tliorns; however sick 
Our hearts may turn to view a sterile 

waste 
Whose niggard streams have all a brack- 
ish taste ; 
Yet is it not weakness, wickedness and 

folly, 
To cringe to fate in moping melancholy ? 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 71 

Oft griefs are harrows for the soul which 

tit 
Its soil for crops of wisdom, worth and 

wit ; 
And hearts are clay which need the clouds 

and rain, 
As well as sunshine, or they bear no 

grain. 
Yet are there those of fortunes so serene, 
No storms disturb the sunshine of the 

scene, 
Who still contrive a peevish irrigation 
By brewing tempests in imagination : 
Better a dancing dog, whose gravity 
Of pendent paw and melanclioly eye, 
The tragic pantomime and fictile game 
Of all such puling puppets put to shame ! 
Even for him whose grief is stern and 

real. 
Not some mere phantom idle and ideal, 
'Tis proof of senile w^eakness to bewail, 
If strength be left to fight the pelting 

hail. 



72 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
XXXII. 

'Tis true that I liave had sufficient cause 
For railing at my kind, yet broken laws 
Are predecessors of most punishments. 
I own 'tis true that in remote events 
Of boyhood and of manhood frequent guilt 
Upon my wayward soul its darkness spih. 
A young man's soul is like a pleasure- 
ground 
Where colors flaunt and merry fiddles 

sound ; 
An old man's soul a house gone to decay, 
Too oft with bats by niglit and owls by 

day: 
And when the springs of innocent cheer- 
fulness 
Are choked by guilty riot or excess, 
An old man's soul then boasts no verdant 

lawn 
Whereon the sunset emulates the dawn. 
Vices and follies when they'i-e nursed by 

men, 
Are like the eggs hatched by the foolish 
hen. 



A Cavern for a Herntltdcje. 73 

For they are serpents' eggs which, soon 

or kite, 
Shall wreak upon us their envenomed 

hate. 

XXXIII. 

Am I a cynic? I hope not. To-day, 
By chance I looked upon a boy at play. 
The dog that in a mirror stops lo stace, 
And giowls as if some oiher dog were 

there — 
That is the cynic. Yet the crabbedest 

cur 
That growls whene'er canine adults dure 

stir 
Within his presence, will, when pupi)ies 

play, 
Like a kind czar his terrors put away, 
And amiably unbend his awful frown. 
So, when a child tugs at an old man's 

gown, 
And pulls his hair and clutches at his knee. 
Then April sunshine warms his heart, and 

he 



74 A Cavern for a Hermitage 

Forgets to be a cynic for the while — 
Such is the genial power of childhood's 

smile. 
A frigid mien may be a lying mask ; 
Oft the soul's wine is in a frozen cask, 
The balmy excellence with which 'twas 

tilled, 
In potent richness at its core distilled. 

XXXIV. 

Sometimes I weary of my hermitage — 
For discontent belongs to human hearts, 
As weeds belong to gardens. The king 

wearies 
Of crown and sceptre, and oft times 

would barter 
A principality for a peasant's cottage ; 
The peasant wearies of ids humble hearth, 
And for the splendid emptiness of wealth 
Oft like a fool, would baiter home and 

wife ; 
The merchant wearies of his bulging 

ledgers ; 



A Cavern for a Hermitaye. 75 

The statesman of Lis power and strata- 
gems ; 
The lawyer of his cobwebs, quips and 

quirks ; 
The sailor of his floor upon the waves ; 
The doctor of his perilous bohises ; 
And all would welcome at such times a 

change 
To novel scenes and aspii-ations strange. 
Sometimes my fancy paints me wondrous 

tales— 
Of whiskered captains, of adventurous 

sails, 
Of splendid cities, of high feats of men, 
In the far world beyond this narrow glen. 
Alladdin and the genii of the lamp, 
As told round cimpfires of an Arab 

camp. 
Ever delight the dwellers of all lands, 
Just as they charm the nomads of the 

sands : 
But stranger than the wildest Orient 

dream, 
The miracles of modern progress seem, 



76 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Save as familiar uses blunt tlieir charm. 
Did ever the Orient dream of a cunning 

arm 
Reaching beneath wide seas to distant 

shores ; 
Of ships tiiat journey without sails or oars ; 
Of iron muscles skilfulier than hands 
And taught in all the crafts of all the 

lands? 

Alas! too well I know what bitter lore 
Close contact with our fellows has in 

store, 
To teach us that despite the marvelous 

things 
Which lend to human progress magic 

wings, 
Heads are no wiser, hearts no purer 

grown. 
Than those the ancients knew in ages 

gone. 
While, probably, the greatest ancients 

knew 
Catarrhs and colics as we moderns do, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. T7 

Pltiyed in the dirt when children, and 

when men 
Oft found themselves all smeared with dirt 

again; 
So, wliile the earth grows older every day, 
Men still are moulded from the self-same 

clay, 
Swayed by the passions, appetites and 

whims 
Wliich Adam felt and every Homer limns. 
The dwarf that on a giant's shoulder rides, 
Sees farther than tlie giant he bestrides. 
Like the dull boor who at a stranger 

stares 
And judges of him by tlie coat lie wears, 
So men are prone to reason on events 
Not from essentials but from accidents. 

XXXV. 

I HAVE noticed a turkey-cock distend with 

the wind of pride, 
And his hauglitiness of step like a silly 

lordling's stride; 



78 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

I have noticed his feathers stiffen like the 

arrogance of a snob, 
And liis tail unfold like a fan in the 

clutch of a female nabob. 
Alike vainglorious we, at this nineteentli 

century's close, 
"When we prate of our boasted land and of 

other nations' woes. 
True, our cities are crowded with traffic, 

our thoroughfares glitter with gold ; 
True, our pageants far outshine all the 

pageantry of old; 
True, on every side we see the marvels of 

thought and toil 
As they blossom in freedom's sunshine 

and grow on freedom's soil ; 
But tliis is not enough. It is man, not 

his handiwork, 
Which makes the essential odds betwixt 

the Christian and Turk. 
If the man be ignoble, what good that he 

rides in a palace-car ? 
If the man be base, he is base though his 

opulence shine afar. 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 79 

We are worshippers of idols and Mammon 

is our false God, 
So have broken the Lord's Command- 
ment and must walk beneath his rod, 
If we look to the east or west, if we look 

to tlie north or the south. 
We bow to some ^rolden ima^je and wor- 

ship with heart and mouth ; 
We are taught to despise the beauty and 

grandeur of things ideal — 
Except, forsooth, they are bond-slaves to 

things that are sordid and real ; 
We are taught that Dollars are better 

than Thoughts that enoble I he soul. 
That tlie man who has wealth and power 

— though a wretch — has reached life's 

goal; 
We bend our knees to the Rich, though 

vile as the vilest weed, 
And glance with scorn at the Poor, though 

noble in thought and deed ; 
We raise our hats to Success, and ask not 

what road it came, 
Though its chariot- wheels still smoke from 

the gutters of crime and shame ! 



80 A Cavern for a HcrmiicKje. 

Not strange, we are dwarfing in manhood 
and swiftly becoming small-souled, 

Better trained for a nation of thieves than 
the Spartan youths of old ; 

Not strange that our statesmen turn rob- 
bers, that demagogues rule the State, 

That gold has mastered the ballot and 
bribes swerve the nation's fate ! 

How^ else, how else could it be, O turkey- 
cocks thoughtless and vain — 

So big in your strutting feathers, so dimin- 
utive in brain ? 

You are only barnyard fowls walking the 
filthy ground ; 

You are tamed, and cannot fly into the 
blue profound. 



XXXVI 

I STOOD and saw a slow ship sailing in, 
Whose lonely path across the seas had been 
I looked on every sorrow, age and sex. 
Among the exiles swarming on her decks — 



A Cavern for a Hermitage, 8 1 

The old man with gray locks and tottering 

staff — 
The bright-eyed boy with music in his 

laugli — 
Tlie home-sick matron, with her long-drawn 

sigh— 
The graceful girl with moonlight in her 

eye— 
The patient peasant with atliletic arm 
To greet the honest toil of shop and farm — 
All these, abandoning their native hind, 
I saw approach Columbia's welcome strand. 
Grief in each heart, hope kindling every 

eye, 
To seek new homes beneath an alien sky. 

Alas ! the shadow of tlie tyrant's rod 
Had blighted the fair tliresholds where 

they trod ; 
And robbers Avith long titles for their 

masks, 
Siolcn the wages of their wretched tasks, 
L(a\ ing no good they ever could attain, 
Save hopeless lives of penury and pain ; 



82 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

While far across the ocean their dim eyes 
Had pictured all that life could realize — 
The blessed liberty to till the vsoil, 
And reap the harvests springing from their 

toil— 
The blessed right to labor, and aspire 
To every good ambition may desire — 
An equal law and every man his own, 
Tlie wicked insolence of rank unknown. 
But, as the sun has spots upon its face, 
wSo do all evil things and things of grace. 
In this strange world, of which so small we 

know, 
So odd unite and so togetlier gro\v. 
That surely wjiat is evil, what is good, 
Is never easy to be understood : 
And thus it is to view the crazy tricks 
Of the strange whirligigs of politics — 
The subtle schemes with disappointments 

fraught — 
The bubble honors bursting soon as 

caught — 
The rancors, jealousies and dark designs — 
The fierce assaults, the mines and coun- 
termines — 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 83 

The humbugs practiced with a saint-like 

leer — 
The hollow friendships and the hates sin- 
cere — 
In short, the hordes of rascals great and 

small, 
Who, wolf-like, ftitten upon those who fall, 
And who, like foul fish dripping from the 

brine, 
Shine while they rot and rotten while they 

shine ! 
I cannot stop to view the whole arena's 
Menagerie of serpents, wolves, hyenas, 
Tiger^, sharks, monkeys— now and then a 

lion — 
Which Uncle Sam is called to keep his 

eye on ; 
I only marvel as I look around, 
His striped pants are still above the 

ground ! 
Millions of partisans con well each word 
Whene'er the voice of leadership is heard; 
And though it drip with folly and deceit- 
It matters not— a million tongues repeat ; 



84 A Cavern for a HcDnitufje. 

Just as a liungi7 parrot will rehearse, 
To get his meal, a sermon or a verse. 
He who would thrive in politics must first 
Bury his manhood as a thing accursed — 
Must study prudence and neutrality, 
Must smile by habit, blush not at a lie — 
Extend a cordial hand to rogues and Tools — 
Consent to be enrolled with servile tools — 
Like weather-cocks obey each wind that 

blows — 
Like rotten sticks float as the current flows — 
And then — if not too honest or too wise — 
AVith decent luck debility will rise. 
Patriot few, with duties to perform, 
Acting as faithful pilots in the storm, 
Braving whatever perils may assail. 
Scorning the hardships of the fiercest gale — 
O noble Few, disdaining things of self, 
Toiling for country, not for place and pelf; 
You, as your guerdon for each lofty aim, 
Suffer infirratitude and hate and shame ! 



A Cavern for a Hermitaye. %b 
XXXVII 

And why not I ? Why shouhl I hide and 

shirk, 
When kind and country all need honest 

work ? 
To arms, my soul ! rouse from thy slothful 

spleen, 
And seek thy duties with heroic mien ! 
Unless I prove my readiness to give, 
What right have I to ask ? what right to 

live? 

True, different men need difference of pur- 
suits, 

Just as to different trees are different 
fruits ; 

True, swine for acorns always hunt the 
oak. 

While oft by man this obvious law is 
broke ; 

True, the world sees beneath a chancel- 
lor's wig 

The frequent noddle of a brainless prig — 



80 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

Finds if some doctors swallowed their own 

pills 
Their fate would save their neighbors 

numerous ills — 
Beholds a pulpit turned into a pound 
By some stray ass of most ungodly 

sound — 
True, I may blunder likewise, or may 

fail, 
Or merely pound the air \\\X\\ worthless 

flail- 
But, there is work to do for every man, 
And he fails not who does the best he 

can. 

XXXVIII. 

Poverty's face looks giim and hard and 

cold, 
Yet it is poverty makes the w^orld rich. 
Men must be poor or else they will not 

toil. 
And if men cease to toil the world must 

halt, 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 87 

The cities crumble and depopulate, 
The mills and markets close, the harvest- 
fields 
Return untilled to primal wilderness, 
And nakedness and famine like gaunt 

wolves 
Glare at all doors. Not wealth, but 

poverty. 
Forces the complex wheels of social life, 
And moves the hands around the clock of 

Progress. 
The nine must toil, or else the ten must 

starve : 
Should then the nine complain because the 

tenth 
Escapes his share ? Or should the tenth, 

tiie drone. 
Despise tlie busy bees that fill the hive ? 
The poor man's envy and the rich man's 

scorn 
Are equal folly, equal blasphemy. 
Doth the kind Providence that paints the 

flower, 



88 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

And stores the lands and seas with fire 

and food, 
And belts the earth with verdure for her 

flocks, 
In everything omnipotent and benign 
So blunder in the synthesis of man, 
The sovereign favorite in the universe, 
Tliat Poverty is made tiie common lot, 
And yet a curse to all tlie sons of toil? 
Nay : indolence, the pale-face child of 

wealth, 
Bred listlessly in leisure's languid lap, 
Seems born to the cradle of young Her- 
cules, 
Beset witli serpents, but without the 

strength 
Of Hercules to strangle and subdue i 
Because the wholesome wines of inno- 
cence 
Seem guarded by the keys of poverty, 
For their excitements, wealth and indo- 
lence 
Seem driven to vice and folly in all 
climes ; 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 89 

The sons and tlaugliters born to opulence, 
Seem born upon a maelstrom's placid 

edge, 
Without a port for which compelled to 

sail, 
With selfishness their compass, with 

caprice 
The wayward pilot of their heedless voy- 
age. 
Drifting along with music on their decks 
And insolent colors and wild merriment. 
The glim-jawed vortex hidden from their 
sight. 

All hail to Toil, though rugged and 
uncouth ! 

All hail to Poverty, though cold and grim ! 

Hail to the Son and Mother ! It is they, 

And only they, who evermore redeem 

The world from hunger, thirst and naked- 
ness : 

' Tis they who bear the shields of law and 
order : 

'Tis they whose fingers rub Aladdin's 
lamp, 



90 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

While nations swarm across the continents, 
And splendid cities as by magic rise : 
'Tis they capture the lightnings from the 

clouds, 
And harness them as servants to the earth : 
'Tis they whose hands scatter upon the 

seas 
The sails of commerce, like the prodigal 

hand 
Of autumn scatters leaves upon the winds: 
'Tis they who send the thoughts and 

words of men 
Beneath the surging seas from land to 

land ; 
Who fill our homes with music, works of 

art, 
And all that soothes the careworn souls 

of men, 
And all that educates, subdues, refines ! 
Hail then to Toil, and hail to Poverty, 
The Son and Mother, who redeem the 

earth 
From barbarism, anarchy, despair ! 



A Cavern for a Hermitage. 91 
XXXIX. 

Behold the hill-born brook, 
So brightly pure and sweet, 
Leaping from rock to rock 
With the sunshine on its feet ; 
But when it halts on the plain, 
Lazy and motionless, 
Then slime and filth profane, 
And wriggling ugliness. 
And such is the stagnant soul ; 
And down in its sombre deeps 
Vile thoughts like monsters roll. 
And Death like a horror creeps. 

Behold how a bugle's blare 
Pours music into the blood, 
' Til it leai)S like a thing of air, 
Disdaining its banks of mud : 
Then even the coward's clay 
Shamefully torpid and cold. 
Melted in battle's ray, 
May fill a hero's mould. 



92 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 

But the sluggard is doubly damned, 
Both body and soul grown dull, 
Like a sliip that lies becalmed 
' Til the elements rot her hull. 



XL. 

A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
From all the hives of men apj rt— 
'Tis a fit place for beasts to rage, 
But not a human heart ! 
Farewell, O crabbed Solitude, 
F'or scenes of busy life ! 
Again I'll quaff th' elixir brewed 
Only 'midst toil and strife ! 



XLI. 

Farewell, O thou beautiful wild-rose, 
Dew-freshened and kissed by the sun ; 
Farewell, O thou innocent child-rose, 
Mine eyes liave alone looked upon ! 



A Carei-n for a Hermitage. 9o 

I shall leave thee as lover leaves maiden 
When belting his sword for the foe ! — 
May the winds treat thee kindly when 

laden 
With odors thy lips shall bestow ! 

Be genial, O skies, in adorning 

This virgin so lovely and sweet ! 

O ye robins, sing blithely each morning, 

This guest of the forest to greet I 

Thou dweller within this green wildwood, 
Sweet saint in thy convent apart, 
Like a song or a laughter from childhood 
Thine image I'll bear in my heart ! 



FmiS. 



